doors

When I first opened doors to you, it was of myself. Those doors broke through steel layers welding the heart, into raw breathing vulnerability – those walls weren’t as strong as I thought. The next doors that opened was to my life. My family, my friends, my possessions: the soil in which I was planted in. I now reach for the sun, for them. Then I opened the doors of the future. These doors weren’t quite open to me yet, but the more I let you in, the more I myself could see what could lie beyond: the sky beyond the clouds, the birds flying over rain, and the long free fall down.

At last, I opened those doors to let you leave. They can’t close any more though, for the doorways have moulded to fit you. Light now seeps through the gaps, but light only travels in straight lines, throwing shadows around gutted darkness. I guess there isn’t anyone to make doors the shape of absence or of longing.